


shine for you

by decinq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5799904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are whispers. There have always been whispers. Jack doesn’t hear them, doesn’t care to listen. He goes home to his apartment and climbs into his bed and kisses at Bittle’s shoulder before tucking his knees up behind Bittle’s and exhaling. The sound of Bittle’s soft snoring is better than any noise Deadspin could make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shine for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nevermindedanyway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevermindedanyway/gifts).



> happy v-day, nevermindedanyway xo!  
> title is from taylor swift's "jump then fall"  
> thank you to my wonderful beta<3

It’s not the first time it happens, but it’s the first time it happens after Jack hasn’t slept well, hasn’t played well.

He’s exhausted down in his bones. They haven’t had more than one day off since the beginning of February. Winter is officially thawing into spring, and Jack is tired.

The beat reporter says, “You guys are only the second team, behind Edmonton, to use Pride Tape. It’s not something mandatory that your team has done, but most of everyone on the roster is using it.”

Jack nods. “Edmonton set a good example.”

The reporter says, “Samwell University, where you played as captain for most of your time there, has a statistically high gay community.”

Jack blinks at the reporter, slow like molasses. He exhales through his nose, and, after a too-long pause, says, “Sorry, did you want me to say something about that? You didn’t ask a question.”

On the other side of the locker room, Patty smirks and snorts a laugh.

Jack says, “There are all sorts of people everywhere. Is there anything else?”

 

* * *

There are whispers, because there have always been whispers. Jack doesn’t hear them, doesn’t care to listen. He goes home to his apartment and climbs into his bed and kisses at Bittle’s shoulder before tucking his knees up behind Bittle’s and exhaling. The sound of Bittle’s soft snoring is better than any noise  _ Deadspin  _ could make.

 

* * *

Jack wakes up to Bittle straddling his hips, and he smiles goofily down at Jack. Jack settles his hands on Bittle’s hips and says, “Hi,” voice raspy, still thick with sleep.

“Mornin’.” Bittle leans down to peck a kiss to Jack’s lips. “I made us a smoothie. You want eggs?”

“Coffee,” Jack says, tugging at Bittle until he collapses against Jack’s chest. He giggles into Jack’s t-shirt, and Jack runs his hands up and down his back lazily. His eyes are still heavy, and he could get back to sleep easily. It’s easy with Bittle’s warm weight over him.

Bittle shakes his head. “You gotta get up. We’re going to Costco before it gets too busy. I’ll make breakfast, but you’re showering, and then we’re going.”

Jack groans, and Bittle laughs at him. “Stop laughing at me,” Jack whines, and Bittle laughs again, because he’s kind of an asshole.

“I love you,” Bittle says, all smiles and round eyes, and Jack can’t help it.

He smiles back. He says, “Love you too,” before rolling over and flipping Bittle onto his back. Bittle yelps, and Jack quiets him by kissing him, hard and full of pressure but with no real intent.

He rolls off Bittle and stands beside the bed. Bittle groans and Jack says, “I want my eggs over medium.”

Jack’s most of the way into the en-suite before Bittle says, “You’re  _ welcome. _ ”

 

* * *

The photos of them at Costco pop up online almost immediately. Jack doesn’t see them. Doesn’t care.

He’s in the gym with Zipchen when Georgia finds him. She lets him finish his set, which is more generous than she has to be. When he’s done, she looks at Zippy until he backs away, shrugging. He says, “I’m gonna be on the rowing machine.”

Jack sits up and says, “George.”

“Jack,” she says. She smiles at him, then, and it’s not menacing. She does cross her arms over her chest, though, and says, “I need to ask you something.”

He nods. He wipes his hand over his forehead. He wants to stand up, even though he knows that the illusion of that giving him the upper hand is just that. An illusion. Instead, he just holds her eye and waits.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just tilts her head at him. He knows he’s not an open book, hides his shit better than most people. He tries to keep his heart off his sleeve. When he smiles at her, he knows it looks sad. “Is this about Eric?”

Her lips twist and she says, “It’s not not about Eric. But it’s more about you.”

Jack nods, even though he’s not sure what he’s agreeing to.

“We’re never going to make you say anything. You don’t have to say anything you’re not comfortable with. But we’re going to stand behind you, whatever you choose to say.”

Jack says, “Yeah.” He looks at his shoes and notices that the laces on his right runner are untied. He says, “Okay.”

 

* * *

Jack picks the tomatoes off his sandwich and says, “You want these?”

He’s holding them out across the table, closer to Bittle’s plate than his own, now, and Bittle says, “Sure thing.” Bittle picks the top of his burger bun off the rest of it, and Jack drops the tomatoes on top of it.

Jack says, “Thanks,” as he wipes his fingers on his napkin.

“You know you can just ask for stuff with no tomatoes, right?” Bittle looks like he wants to be laughing at Jack, and Jack wants to kiss him, but can’t in the florescent light of the diner. It’s late enough that maybe no one would know who he is, maybe he’d get away with it. But there is a group of young kids a few tables over and they all have their phones out, and it’s—

Jack says, “I don’t want to be a pain in the ass. It’s fine.” He smiles at Bittle, and kicks their ankles together. “Plus, now you get extras.”

Bittle smiles, and Jack knows he said the right thing. Bittle likes tomatoes well enough, likes most food in general. But he only ever cooks them into anything when it’s subtle enough not to throw off Jack’s taste buds. He doesn’t put them in greek salad when he makes it anymore--he let Jack convince him to make it with balsamic vinegar half of the time instead of white vinegar, and he lets Jack pick the tomatoes out of this club sandwiches to dump them onto Bittle’s plate whenever they’re out. He loves Jack in this awkward, real way.

And Jack knows he’s not always easy to love, all hard edges and gangly limbs and sharp elbows. His brain leaves him impaired the same way a twisted ankle or cracked rib would, and Bittle handles all of it with a grace Jack’s not sure he deserves.

Bittle is all soft light and big smiles and gentle hands. He smells like the laundry his mom used to air dry in their backyard when he was a kid. He holds Jack’s hand when they sit on the couch and binge watch HGTV shows, and he takes Jack’s gross restaurant tomatoes without protest.

Bittle takes a bite of his food and kicks Jack’s feet with his own. He still has his mouth full when he says, “Eat up, weirdo.”

 

* * *

Lardo texts him the screenshots of the photos: him and Bittle sitting across from each other, feet touching under the table. There’s a shot of Jack holding tomato slices between his fingers like they’re diseased. There’s no caption, and they both look fine, but Jack understands the implication.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack does a twitter session through the Falconers account, and it’s fun enough. Easy enough.

Someone asks, “Who is your fav team mate? #AskJack” and Jack responds with  **not zippy**

Someone else asks, “What is your favourite move/book that you’ve taken in this year? #askjack” and Jack answers  **just finished ‘fifteen dogs.’ good read, but emotional.**

And then someone sends a bunch of photos of Jack and Bittle, in line at Starbucks, outside Jack’s apartment, at Brown Stadium, in the diner. Jack doesn’t respond to that one.

Someone asks, “What are your least fave foods @NHLfalcs #askjack” and Jack says,  **tomatoes and meatloaf.**

Bittle uses his twitter account to say, “.@NHLfalcs What is your favorite kind of dessert? :)” and Jack says,  **don’t tell anyone I eat any desserts, but it’s apple pie with maple :)**

 

* * *

Jack has a ring box that is burning a hole in the back of his sock drawer.

When Bittle kisses him, pushes into him, curls around him, wraps his hands around him, Jack’s chest gets heavy and his throat gets tight. Bittle smiles into Jack’s skin, laughs into the spot where his neck and shoulder meet. He runs his hands along Jack’s sides like he’s something delicate, something that could break but shouldn’t. He sets his feet in Jack’s lap when they’re on the couch and he drives when they go to visit Shitty in Cambridge and lets Jack leave his hand on his thigh the whole way there. He loves Jack like he deserves it, which Jack isn’t really sure about, but is something he’s willing to try to earn every single day.

 

* * *

 

It’s not something any real journalist will ask about. Jack’s not sure if they’re even really allowed. Maybe they would, if they were okay with never being allowed back into the room again.

But it’s something that Jack is afraid of, anyway. He knows they can’t ask, but he has a million different answers pressed into the roof of his mouth, anyway.

 

* * *

Bittle knocks their shoulders together while they’re walking a circle around Abbott Park, and Jack feels warm all over. It’s been nearly three years, and it still makes his heart race—that this is his life, that Bittle fits so perfectly into it. Jack doesn’t reach for Bittle’s hand, but he wants to.

 

* * *

Bittle throws himself over the back of the couch and lands half on top of Jack. Jack huffs and says, “The fuck—“

Bittle laughs and says, “Sorry. I missed you. I didn’t even realize you were home.”

Jack runs his hands down Bittle’s back and twists his head to kiss at the side of Bittle’s face. “I missed you too. I hate California.”

Bittle laughs and says, “California hates you too, if that point streak is anything to go by.”

“I do it all for you,” Jack says, smirking into Bittle’s cheek.

Bittle rearranges himself and peers down at Jack. He says, “I’m so happy you’re home,” all earnest, and Jack blinks up at him.

“Me too. Hate being on the road.”

When Bittle finally presses their lips together, Jack exhales through his nose. Bittle relaxes against Jack, lets Jack hold up more of his weight, and it settles something in Jack. Jack tilts his face to change the angle of their mouths. Bittle drags his fingers through Jack’s hair, his nails running gently along Jack’s scalp. Jack parts his lips, and Bittle licks into his mouth. Jack shifts his hips up against Bittle’s, raises his knees and wraps his legs around Bittle, tangles their ankles together. Bittle grinds down into Jack, not rushed but not slow, either. Jack could die like this, the strong set of Bittle’s shoulders under his hands and his weight pushing Jack down into the couch cushions. 

Jack wants to die like this, seventy or so years down the road, wrapped around Bittle in their bed. He just wants to share his life with Bittle and occupy this soft, warm, gentle space where they can be together and love each other and not have to worry about what anyone will say. He wants to love Bittle for his whole life, even when it’s hard, and he wants to get a dog with him and maybe a kid if that’s something they’re both into, buy a little house and retire while they still have time to live. He wants to go to on vacations with Bittle and spend Christmas morning in the warmth of their bed and he wants--

Bittle lifts his head and says, “What’re you thinking about?”

Jack opens his eyes, blinks up at Bittle. His lips are pink and swollen and there’s a flush rising on his cheeks. Jack, voice raspy, says, “Sorry.” Bittle is good at picking up on how quickly Jack gets lost in his own thoughts. 

Bittle shakes his head. “‘s fine. Wanna tell me?”

Jack says, “I was just,” and kisses Bittle’s cheek. “Thinking,” kisses Bittle’s nose, and Bittle snorts a laugh. “About how,” his other cheek. “I would do,” his chin. “Anything for you.”

Bittle presses his lips to Jack’s, kisses him close-mouthed but hard, and Jack smiles into it.

“Anything, eh?” Bittle asks. He runs his thumbs over Jack’s eyebrows and over his temples. 

Jack says, “Yeah,” with a laugh. He can feel his cheeks turning pink. 

Bittle asks, “Bedroom?”

Jack nods, and Bittle stands. Jack scrambles after him. On his way into their bedroom, he pulls his t-shirt over his head, which is really the least he can do. 

 

* * *

 

Jack takes a huge hit into the boards, and they pull him from the bench when he slurs his speech. He bit his tongue, which is the real problem, because it’s bleeding and he already sounds like a French Canadian idiot in a city of New Englanders on a good day. But they’re worried, and he doesn’t blame them, and so he follows behind the med staff and takes a seat in his stall.

Spenser asks, “Who’s the President?” 

Kim says, “Jack’s Canadi--”

“I know who the President is, Kim,” Jack says, all snark.

“Who’s the Prime Minister of the Truth North Strong and Free?” Spenser asks, smirking.

“Trudeau.” Spenser raises his eyebrow at Jack, and Jack says, “The second one. The younger one. Jesus, you’re a fu--”

“And who’s this?” Kim interrupts, knocking her shoulder into Bittle’s. 

Bittle smiles down at Jack and Jack smiles back up at him. Jack says, “Hey,” and Bittle steps towards him.

“You okay?” Bittle asks.

“Right as rain,” Jack says. He puts his hands on Bittle’s hips as Bittle runs his fingers along Jack’s forehead. 

Bittle turns towards Kim. “He’s fine?”

She shrugs. “No signs of a concussion.”

Jack sticks his tongue out and says, “I -it my -ongue.”

Jack sees Spenser roll his eyes in the corner of his vision but ignores him. Bittle says, “You’re a big baby,” and Jack nods. 

He presses his nose into the front of Bittle’s shirt and says, “Your baby.”

“You got it,” Bittle says, hand on the back of Jack’s neck.

Kim says, “Jack, you wanna go back out there? Looks like there’s about 3:15 left in the game.”

“Are we still up?”

“Two points,” Kim confirms.

Jack shakes his head against Bittle’s front, and Kim says, “You got it. If you shower now you can probably skip media. Make ‘em itch a bit.”

 

* * *

 

They get most of the way home before Jack remembers to bring it up. “If we don’t make the playoffs this year--”

“You’re gonna make the playoffs,” Bittle interrupts.

Jack sighs. “ _ If _ we don’t--” Jack taps his fingertips on his knee while looking at his own reflection in the passenger side window. Past the blurred, half-formed image of his own face, he can see Bittle’s profile. Jack watches him shoulder check, the vision of him shifting when they change lanes, closer to the street lights that line the street. Jack turns to face him and says, “If we don’t make it, I think it’d be a good time to come out.”

He watches Bittle’s knuckles go tight on the steering wheel, and Bittle turns to look at him, blinking at him with wide eyes. Jack says, “Watch the road,” and Bittle swears under his breath.

He puts on his signal and turns into the parking lot of a gas station. The sign says it’s at 2.217 a gallon. On the dashboard, Jack can see that the tank is three quarters full. Bittle says, “Jack,” and it comes out breathy. Jack’s not sure if it’s a question or not.

“If that’s okay with you,” Jack says, because he thought it was obvious--Bittle is half of every choice Jack makes, is the whole reason he does anything, most days. Jack thought it was obvious--he’s not in this alone. 

They’re a team, and if Bittle isn’t okay with it, then that’s--that has to be fine. 

Bittle says, “I--” He wrings his hands on the steering wheel.

Jack turns towards him, shift against the passenger seat and pull on his seatbelt. He says, “They’d drop the story after a few days, as soon as actual hockey picked up again. And there’s no news bigger than who’ll take home the Cup. I figured--”

“Yeah,” Bittle says. “Okay.”

Jack bites at his bottom lip, then wets it with his tongue. “Really?”

Bittle nods. “Can I ask why, uh--why now?”

Jack looks out the windshield. He cracks his knuckles and says, “I want to marry you.”

When Jack turns to look at Bittle, he’s biting into his bottom lip, but his lips are turned up at the corners. He runs his hand under his eyes.

Jack says, “You can’t be surprised,” with a grin across his face.

“I mean,” Bittle says. He laughs, then, a ridiculously endearing giggle that bursts out of him like it’s out of his control. Jack smiles, and Bittle says, “I hoped so. I want to marry you, too.”

“That’s-- That’s good.”

 

* * *

 

The Falconers fall out in the first round. 

Three days later, before the Flyers and the Penguins are set to meet, but after the first game in the series the Rangers and the Caps, Georgia and her PR team put out a small, concise statement. 

Jack read it over before he gave her the okay to send it out. He’s said he’s not interested in doing any press until he and Bittle get back from Turks and Caicos. 

It takes about 20 minutes after its release for the NHL PR Twitter account to post it, and after that, it’s all out in the open. It’s funny, how much a little piece of paper with a handful sentences can change so much--a few careful crafted words have now changed Jack’s life forever. Bittle’s, too. The League. Jack hopes, if anything, it changes the lives of however many kids need it--that they’ll know they aren’t alone, that they can have anything they want, that no one can stop them from chasing their dream. It’s sappy, but Jack thinks his life would have taken a much smoother path had someone blazed the trail for him. 

It’s a big responsibility, but it’s one that Jack is now, finally, ready to shoulder.

He texts Shitty,  **can u be made free the 7-14 of july?**

Shitty replies,  **Yeah? Just me?**

Jack says,  **lardo 2**

Shitty says,  **Am I allowed to ask?**

Jack smiles.  **check the internet** , he says, because it’s the last time anyone in the world will ever be surprised by this news again in his life.

It takes a few minutes that drag, and Bittle touches the back of Jack’s neck over the couch. He says, “Have you iced your knee yet today?”

Jack says, “Not yet.”

Bittle disappears into the kitchen and says, “An actual disaster, I swear to--”

Shitty says,  **??? !!!!!!!!!** and then Jack’s phone is ringing in his hand.

Jack answers and says, “Hey.”

Shitty says, “Jackabelle, is this real?”

Jack nods, and then smiles when he says, “Uh, yeah. Bittle and I, we’re. We’re getting married in July. Are you going to be free?”

Jack can hear Shitty laughing through the phone and has to bite at his own lip. Shitty says, “Finally some good news.”

Jack laughs at that and says, “The news probably won’t be so kind, in the next few days.”

“Fuck that,” Shitty says. “I’m fuckin’--”

Jack says, “Yeah,” breathless, because he can’t believe it either. He says, “I gotta go. Management told me to keep my phone off for a few days.”

Shitty says, “Yeah, of course. If you need a place to hide out, just come over.”

Jack says, “Thank you.”

Bittle comes back into the room holding an icepack, and Jack hangs up the phone after saying bye to Shitty. He says, “Here,” and holds it out to Jack. He tosses it to Jack, and Jack catches it. 

“I think Shitty was crying,” Jack says. Bittle settles beside Jack on the couch, and he leans against Jack’s side.

“Good,” Bittle says with a snort. He taps Jack’s knee and says, “Ice it, come on.”

Jack props his foot up on the coffee table, and rests his free hand on Bittle’s thigh. Bittle pinches Jack’s side, and Jack swats at him. “Hey,” he says, a little in pain and a lot in love.

“Thank you for being brave for me,” Bittle says, suddenly earnest. 

Jack’s not sure he’s ever been brave in his life. He’s not sure how brave it is to let a PR team do all his dirty work. But he’s happy to do it. It feels nice, like a life-long weight has been lifted off his chest. He squeezes his hand around Bittle’s leg and scoots down on the couch to rest his head on Bittle’s shoulder.

Every time Bittle smiles at Jack, it lights Jack up from the inside. It’s been years, and it hasn’t gone away. Jack loves him, and he’s spent his whole life standing on the edge of this cliff: him and the closet and the media, and he’s happy now. He’s not afraid of jumping into it anymore, because Bittle is with him. 

Jack laces their fingers together, and Bittle says, “Whatcha wanna do now?”

Jack tightens his grip on Bittle’s hand and says, “Anything.”

 

 


End file.
